The White Rose

The Messenger from Calais

While the blood of both Philip and Walter dried upon the yellow earth of Tyburn, where the dogs, for many days, came to sniff and yelp, Westminster was slowly recovering from its nightmare.

The King's three sons remained alone till evening. No one visited them, except for the gentlemen attached to their households; everyone kept clear of the doors of their apartments, behind which the three men were in the profound grip of anger, humiliation or sorrow.

Matilda, with her small escort, had returned to Barnet at midday. Distracted with hate and anger, she had tried to force herself into the King's presence.

Knox had come to inform her that the King was working and did not wish to be disturbed. 'It is he; it is this watchdog who bars the way and prevents my reaching his master.' Everything confirmed the Countess Matilda's impression that the Keeper of the Seals was the sole artisan of the disaster which had overtaken her daughters and of her own personal disgrace. Everything tended to make her believe this: Knox was capable of anything.

'I leave you to God's mercy, Master Knox, God's mercy,' she said in a threatening voice as she left him.

Other passions and interests were already in question at Westminster. The familiars of the exiled Princesses tried to renew the invisible threads of power and intrigue, even by denying the friendships of which they had been so proud but a short time before. The loom of fear, vanity and ambition set itself going once more to weave again, upon a new design, the cloth so brutally torn.

Sir Robert Stafford, always prudent, had the cunning not to boast of his triumph; he waited merely to harvest its fruits. In the evening, at supper, the King had about him not only his two brothers and his daughter, Pole, Knox, and Woodville, but also Sir Robert Stafford; this was a sign which anyone could interpret that he was regaining lost ground

It was a small supper; almost a mourning supper. In the long narrow room, next to the King's chamber, where the repast was served, there reigned a heavy silence. Even the Duke of Clarence was silent, and the greyhound Lombard, as if he felt the diners' embarrassment, had left his master's feet to go and lie before the fireplace.

When the page boys, between two courses, were changing the slices of bread, Lady Tudor came in, carrying in her arms the little Kronprinz Karl, so that he might kiss his mother good night.

'Lady Mercer,' said the King, calling Lady Tudor by her maiden name, 'bring my grandson to me.'

'My only grandson,' he added to himself.

'Karl! Give a smile for your grandfather,' said Elizabeth.

The child appeared to have no fear of the unblinking stare fixed upon him. Suddenly, putting out his little hand, he buried it in the sovereign's golden hair, and pulled out a curly lock.

Edward the Handsome smiled. At once there was a sigh of relief among the diners, everyone laughed, and dared at length to speak.

When the child had gone and the meal was over, the King dismissed everyone but Pole and Knox whom he signaled to remain. For a long moment he said nothing and his counsellors respected his silence.

'Are dogs creatures of God?' he asked suddenly, though his audience had no idea from what train of thought the question arose.

He had risen to his feet and placed his hand on the warm neck of the greyhound who had got up at his approach and was stretching himself before the fire.

'Sire,' replied Sir John Knox, 'we know a great deal about men because we are men ourselves, but we know very little about the rest of the phenomena of nature.'